Boston Tea Party
by Gussie Manlove
Summary: Oneshot. Porn WITH plot...ish. My history is terrible. England's having some money troubles, and has to make a big sacrifice. America is not happy about it.


Warning! Naughty language and naughty sex scene….

Also, my crappy history comes into play here. I don't know jack about the Boston Tea Party….

"Shit,"

_

It wasn't often that England swore. He tried very hard to keep a calm disposition when things weren't going as planned, such was the British way. Unfortunately, in these circumstances, things were just far too terrible for him to be able to control such obscenities.

"Sir…" one of his subordinates, clearly shocked at his vulgar language, spoke tentatively "what do you propose we do about this?"

England took in a deep breath, holding it in before exhaling. He could feel his eyebrows knitted together in frustration. _Why __couldn__'__t __things __just __be __simple?_

"There isn't much we can do in this situation," he said, shuffling about some papers on his desk, anything to distract himself.

There was a heavy silence in the room as England grew more and more agitated. The boy on the other side of his desk felt his knees begin to shake when he saw England's hand clench into a fist.

"Get me America on the telephone," he practically hissed.

~*~LALALALALALALALALALALA~*~

"America, there's a phone call for you,"

"What? Now? What time is it?" America mumbled into his pillow, burying his face deep within it's cosy confines. He heard a light switch clicking on and pushed his head into the pillow a little further, so he wouldn't have to deal with the brightness just yet.

"It's 6 a.m. Sir,"

"6 a.m? Are you crazy? Tell them to call me when the sun is out!" America said with a quick wave of his hand before curling up under his duvet.

"America, it's-"

"NO."

"It's probably a good idea t-"

"LATER."

"But Eng-"

"SLEEPING."

Things went quiet for a while, but the man with the phone refused to leave. America growled lowly. No one should be waking him up this early.

"It's England," was all the man had to say.

America flung the covers off of himself and wrenched his face up from the pillow. He clumsily fumbled for his glasses before smacking them over his eyes, making the world that little bit clearer.

"GIMME." He gestured to the phone, holding out his hand expectantly. The man with the phone rolled his eyes and handed the device over before exiting the room.

"England! What's up?" America said happily into the phone, a bright smile plastered over his previously tired face.

"_Good __morning, __America,__" _England replied on the other end. America could have sworn that England sounded a little off, but he put that thought to one side for then. _"__I __actually __called __for __a __very __serious __reason__…"_

"Shoot," America replied, clearly unaware of what was about to happen.

"_I__'__m __going __to __tax __your __tea__…" _England's voice sounded shaky.

"You're…you're going to what my what?" America scratched the back of his neck, uncertain that he had heard that correctly.

"_The tea you grow and make. I'm going to implement a tax on it," _

"Imple…ment…"

"_A tax…yes,"_

America froze.

"You're…going to tax my tea?"

"_Yes,"_

"The tea I grow,"

"_Indeed,"_

"And make,"

"_Affirmative,"_

"You're taxing it,"

"_That is correct,"_

America felt his stomach drop, along with his smile that was beginning to hurt his cheeks. His chest ached around where his heart was and he clutched at it through his bed shirt, the loose fabric giving obedience to the sensation of his blunt nails digging into his skin so slightly.

"Why?" he managed, choking on the feelings on betrayal surging through him.

"…_I__'__m __sorry __Alfred. __It __was __a __hard __decision __for __me __to __make; __you __know __you__'__re __like __a __brother __to __me,__" _England sounded genuinely remorseful, but it was that word he used 'brother'. America hated that word passionately.

Since he could remember, he'd always looked up to England: The Great British Empire. He owned vast amounts of land and was the most powerful Empire the world had seen since the Roman Empire itself. England was a proud man, and America was proud to be part of the Empire…for a while at least. As a child, he had learned fast to provide for himself, but England had always been by his side…just like a Big Brother. America never managed to see England that way, however.

America had known he was in love with England from a relatively young age. When both England and France had both been competing for him, America had chosen England, not out of pity, but because he found the man's atmosphere very comfortable; like he belonged there. As he grew older, he found himself captivated by malachite-green eyes, bright with hope and aspirations and hooded by large eyebrows; soft blonde hair that was always trimmed neatly and appropriately and sat gently against the nape of his neck… his kind smiles and words, mixed with his adorable, irritable expressions; America loved it all. It had started slowly, but by his age, he had realised fully just how deep his feelings ran for this man.

This man that thought him a 'brother'.

"You didn't answer my question," America stated, staring at his knees as he'd pulled his legs over the side of the bed. He could feel the ache in his neck from sleeping strangely starting to creep up on him. He massaged the spot with his free hand, kneading the muscles a little bit harder than really necessary.

"…_I__'__m __not __doing __well __with __money __right __now. __I __need __to __encourage __more __countries __to __import __from __here__…__and __I __can__'__t __handle __the __competition __your __tea __gives __me. __I__'__m __sorry, __America; __but __I __need __this. __You__'__ll __figure __something __out. __I__'__m __sure __of __it__…" _He didn't sound very sure at all.

"Right," America replied, physically biting his tongue so he didn't say anything stupid.

"_Anyway__…__that__'__s __how __it __is. __I__'__ll __speak __to __you __soon,__" _Without even a 'goodbye' England hung up.

America took the device away from his ear, not realising how tight he'd been holding it. His knuckles had gone white from a lack of proper blood-flow.

~*~LALALALALA~*~*~~*~*~~*~

England let out a long sigh, making the boy, who had come to collect the phone, jump.

"Have you always had such a…nervous disposition, boy?" England asked with a furrowing of his brows. The boy, who had turned away from England, snapped back quickly and his back was perfectly straight.

"Yes, sir!" the boy replied, going to salute and dropping the phone on his way. England rolled his eyes and turned his back to the boy, looking out of his study window. He heard shuffling steps before the 'click' of a closed door. He let out another sigh and buried his head in his hands.

Why did he feel so bloody awful? America was just another part of the Empire: and Britain was the centre of that Empire. It was called the British Fucking Empire. It had a flag and everything! Without Britain…there _was_ no Empire: which is why it came first! So why was there such a tightness in his chest? He'd never felt so terrible after doing this kind of thing before, so why now? Why America?

"Ergh!" He voiced a small part of his confusion and frustration, mixing with the pain in his chest.

He must be sick, there was no other reason for it.

Standing up, England decided that he just needed to begin things right away. It was his best bet, he figured, to start it now and worry about it later.

With that thought, he left his study to go and tell the others to begin the tax on American tea.

~*~*~*~*~*~LALALALA~*~*~*~*~*~

"It's a disaster, America!"

"Yeah! We're up to our eyes in debt!"

"Something needs to be done!"

"We've worked for months on making this tea, and now it's not selling!"

"These taxes are ridiculous!"

"How are we supposed to survive?"

"CALM DOWN EVERYONE," America managed to shout over the noise of the crowd. The mass of people that had gathered around his home fell silent quite quickly. They looked up at him, as he stood on his front porch step, awaiting his advice.

"There's nothing we can do," he began, the crowd immediately going into a fit of argumentative shouting before he managed to calm them down again "Hey! Let me finish! There's nothing we can do UNLESS," he made sure to emphasise that before they started shouting again "we want to do something incredibly drastic,"

"Drastic?" A woman called from the back of the group and others nodded in agreement. The sun wasn't seen as frequently in these later months of the year, and there was the strong chill of fall about them.

The tax had been in place for a number of months now, bringing them to the beginning of the month of November. America had been thinking up a plan for a fair amount of time now, and figured it was about time to tell everyone what he was thinking.

"Yes," he began, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose "we're going to put an end to the British Empire taxing our produce," he said simply.

"How in God's name are we going to manage that?" a man shouted gruffly in the front line. America positively smirked at this.

"We're going to take down that damn Brit's ships!" he called back, grinning devilishly.

He was met with a long expanse of silence.

"Do…what?" someone enquired.

"Like I said! We're going to get to those ships that are importing tea, and we're going to capture them and dump the cargo into the sea before they come into port. That way, there will be no tea for anyone to buy, so they'll have to get our taxed tea!" He explained eagerly.

"I don't understand," another voice sounded "how will this put an end to the taxing…?"

"Don't you see?" America exclaimed joyfully "With this, we're going to start to break away from that Brit and become our own damn country!"

There was another pregnant pause, filled with uncertainty, before one man, clapping, broke it. He was grinning from ear to ear and slapping his large hands together enthusiastically.

"I'm in!" He shouted, and soon, others began to join him, until the whole crowd was cheering and clapping as well.

America stood back and watched them with a satisfied smile.

"England! ENGLAND!"

"What in the bloody hell do you want, Jeeves? It's three in the bloody morning!"

England was not a morning person at the best of times, but recently he hadn't been feeling very well. It was some kind of chest infection that hadn't gone away for months. The boy who had been newly employed when the pain had started had finally given his name to England. Jeeves seemed like a ridiculously upper-class name for such an imbecile, however.

"Sorry sir, but we have some, erm, news…" England had a tendency to sleep with his head under the duvet as well as the rest of his body and he peered above it to look at Jeeves. The poor boy was shaking.

"Well go on then! Spit it out so I can go back to sleep," the British man grumbled angrily, his voice cracking from the lack of use during his sleep.

"Umm…Sir…The thing is…"

"Say it,"

"B-But.."

"Don't make me use the curse of the leek, Jeeves,"

"A-Ah! No, umm…"

"Hesitate one more time, and you're sitting on Busby's chair,"

"AMERICA DESTROYED THE SHIPS CARRYING OUR TEA!"

England's eyes snapped open and he sat up perfectly straight, gripping his duvet tightly. He felt a chill run from his toes and all the way up his body.

"He did what?" He asked quietly. Shocked by this reaction, Jeeves mumbled back.

"The ships with our tea on them. He unloaded the cargo into the ocean and destroyed the tea. The crews on the ships are fine, if not quite angry, and are coming back home as soon as possible,"

"I see," England replied thoughtfully, his grip on his duvet not loosening in the slightest "all right. You can go now, Jeeves. Thank you for the message," leaving Jeeves to depart on his own, England slowly climbed out of bed, and calmly began to get dressed.

He walked to his dresser and took out the clothes he was planning to wear before removing his nightwear. Calmly, he pulled on his navy blue breeches and then put his stockings on over the calf of his leg. Picking up his white vest, he covered his naked torso with it prior to placing the soft, white linen shirt over it.

Buttoning it up, he glanced at the remaining layers he had yet to put on. Getting dressed was a laborious task, but he did like the end result, so he supposed it was worth it.

Next was the cravat, which took a lot of practice to get into place. However, England would never accept a failure on his part, so he had learnt how to wear it correctly faster than any other man he knew. Once the cravat had been attached to his collar, he pushed his arms into the sleeves of his waistcoat, once again doing up the buttons. He straightened everything out, making sure what needed to be tucked in was tucked in, before walking to his walk-in closet.

England lived a life of luxury, and he enjoyed that. His walk-in closet was one of his favourite places to go as it was the most spectacular of all of the rooms in his house. Mirrors lined every wall and rails upon rails of his favourite clothes hung delicately within there. The room was decorated with the colours of his British flag and was well lit from the large window he'd had built into the roof to let the sun inside.

Walking through it, he stopped at the very end and picked up a tailed, navy blue coat. He let the sleeves encase his arms in the finest silk, draping his shoulders in luxury. Bending down, he pulled out a pair of shiny, black leather shoes with buckles and fastened them to his feet expertly.

He walked back out of the walk-in closet and into his bedroom, heading to the door, almost ready to go. As he reached the door, he glanced to his left and smirked, picking up the object sitting innocently on the side table.

He placed the hat on his head before exiting his room.

~*~*~*~SORRYTHISISREALLYLONG~*~*~*~

America breathed heavily, clutching onto the mast of the ship and watching the cargo falling into the ocean. His heart was wrenching at the thought of doing something like this to the man he loved, but he knew it was the only way to get things the way he wanted them.

An image of the man who raised him appeared before his eyes, looking extremely disappointed. America clenched his eyes shut and physically shook the image away.

"America! The cargo has been destroyed!" someone reported to him. Turning around, he was met with an eager young lad, not too much younger than himself. He smiled brightly in reply.

"Good work! Let's get out of here!" America laughed as he grabbed the kid by the wrist and jumped overboard. Holding onto his glasses with his free hand, he pulled the boy above the water's surface with his other. The kid looked like a drowned rat and America laughed a little harder.

"America, get on board," a kindly voice of an old man called to them, paddling towards them in a small wooden boat. America dragged the boy with him to the side of the boat before pushing him up into the thing. The old man pulled him up afterwards.

"Back to shore, sir!" America shouted gleefully, pointing to the port with a wide grin.

It didn't take them too long to get into port and climb out of the boat. The old man denied their help to get the boat ashore, but America and the kid refused to take 'no' for an answer and helped him pull the rather heavy thing onto the beach.

Exhausted, both America and the kid collapsed on the sand, not caring if their hair and clothes became coated in the stuff.

"I wonder, is this what it's like to be a pirate?" America enquired to the boy, chuckling and not really expecting an answer.

"That depends…have you managed some romance and plundering?" A familiar voice growled from behind him and America recognised it almost immediately.

That voice…was that…England?

"E-England?" America turned around abruptly and saw the man he had grown to love standing so close, on American soil.

England visited America every now and then, but he always kept to a schedule. This visit was completely unplanned and off that schedule, which made America's knees feel a little weaker. However, he swallowed his fear and set his face into one of nonchalance.

"That's right, America," The gentleman growled, tilting his three-pointed hat forward and creating a rather menacing shadow over his face. America shuddered involuntarily. England usually dressed like this, but the hat was something new. Or, as he looked at it's tattered edges and faded fabric, old.

"How could I forget?" he snarled back, refusing to be beaten by this man. He was wet, and it was December, so he could feel the coldness seeping into his very being. Not wanting to appear weak in front of this man, he suppressed his shivers.

"I think we need to talk," The Brit said with a forced smile, beckoning America with a motion of his finger "you look quite cold,"

America didn't reply audibly, but he nodded and got to his feet, leading the way to his home. England followed him silently, like a ghost of sorts.

~*~*~*~BOUTFRIGGINTIIIIME~*~*~

England got straight to the point.

"What is all of this about?" he demanded, lacing his fingers together and laying them upon the mahogany desk in America's study.

They'd gone to America's home and America had led him straight to the study, bolting the door shut behind them. The study was similar to England's back at his home, but it was much smaller and less dark. Whereas England had heavy velvet dark green curtains, America's were thin and red and let in a lot of natural light. His furniture was a lighter mahogany than the darker shade he had at his home.

This was the first time that America had experienced such a menacing aura from England. The dark atmosphere seemed to emanate from the man. America felt a chill and pulled off his wet coat.

"I think that's kind of obvious, Artie," he said with a smirk, turning his back to the man just after seeing his beautifully irritated expression. America was a sadist at heart.

"Don't bloody call me that," England growled with an anger neither man knew he had, though this fury was contradicted by the bright blush on his cheeks.

America chuckled and pulled off his white shirt, the wet fabric sticking to his skin in a very unpleasant way. He had no qualms with stripping in front of England - let the blonde see his awesome physique – and the material had gone see-through anyway. He shivered and set the wet clothes on the back of a nearby chair, hanging them to dry.

"And don't st-strip in front of me either!" England practically squealed, tilting his hat over his eyes.

Putting on the hat had been completely useless. He remembered the days when he would wear this hat with pride in his youth, claiming colonies and sailing the seven seas…he remembered how courageous and loud he used to be. That seemed so long ago now…America had grown so much since then. England noticed how the muscles moved fluidly under America's skin and he swallowed hard, feeling his chest tighten. His illness must be coming back.

"Hn," America scoffed "Man up, it's nothing you haven't seen before," he stated, turning to face England with a smirk.

But it _was_ something he hadn't seen before! When had his charge grown so much? It seemed like just yesterday that he was a small little kid, eating fish and chips in his small kitchen. He couldn't deny that America had grown to become a rather attractive young man. He was eloquently muscled in all of the right places, his tan skin stretching over them effortlessly. His hair was still the golden colour of honey, and his eyes were the brightest azure, though they'd seen more sun and time, his hair growing lighter and thicker and his eyes seeming wiser.

"You're insufferable," England barked, ignoring the sudden racing of his heart. Honestly, what was that all about?

"I'm sure," America replied, sitting down in front of the British man, leaning his elbow on the desk. His hair was still quite wet and England watched as a water droplet slowly fell from America's bangs and hit his chest, running straight down the centre of his body, across his abs and over his belly button, before being absorbed by the material of his trousers.

"P-Put a bloody shirt on," England protested, swallowing thickly before realising he was essentially staring at the American's crotch. America chuckled.

"I think I'm okay…why…is it really _bothering _you?" he said slowly and deliberately with a smirk.

"N-No!" England denied enthusiastically, his cheeks glowing red with embarrassment. He tore his eyes away from the man and huffed. He heard a soft snort from America and turned to face him fiercely "Will you shut up?" he cried.

"What if I don't want to?" America replied, leaning in a little closer. It was driving him insane: being this close to the man he loved, when he was looking so damn cute and embarrassed. America was a bit of a sadist like that.

"As your elder brother, I order you to-"

England was cut off by a pair of lips being pressed against his own.

He let out a small, pathetic yelp and attempted to push America away, but to no avail. The other man was much stronger than him. When had that happened? Had he really neglected America so much that he didn't even notice him growing? What kind of brother was he?

…As a matter of fact, why was he sitting there asking himself questions, when he should be putting all of his effort into removing the other man from his face?

America pulled away, his bright cerulean eyes meeting England's emerald green for a few moments. They were smouldering and England swore he felt the heat of his gaze when America glanced back at his lips for a split second.

"A-America! What the bloody hell do you-"

"Shut up," America whispered, more lovingly than threateningly. England felt a strange warmth spread through him and his heart began to race again. Before he could focus on that, America kissed him again.

This time, England really felt it. It was like electricity, running from the point of contact to every small corner and crevice of his body. Without thinking, he was suddenly pressing back, his eyes closing.

What the hell? This was his _brother_ he was kissing! Although they might not have been related by blood, their bond was still as strong as it would have been if they did…wasn't it? Thinking back on it, had their relationship ever really been brotherly? At first, he'd only wanted to have America because France wanted him…but…when had he come to feel so strongly about the boy? Well, America was a man now. Taller than him, stronger than him…he wore glasses now, too.

America made a groaning noise that went straight to England's pants. The British gentleman gasped at his own lewdness and, by omission, gave America a chance to deepen their kiss. The blue-eyed man pressed his lips harder against England before pushing his tongue through the man's parted lips.

As much as he wanted to hate it, he didn't; and that scared him to no end.

"A-America!" He squealed when their lips parted, each party breathing heavily into the small space between them. At the very unmanly sound, England's already flushed cheeks became a few shades redder. America laughed softly at him.

"I'm sorry, England," he began, before his voice stopped to a deadly whisper "I don't think I can hold back any longer…" and then his lips were on England's neck, planting open-mouthed kisses along his jugular.

England was overwhelmed. 'Any longer'? Did that mean that America…felt _that __way_ about him?

"Ah!" he moaned loudly when America sucked hard on his neck, no doubt causing a large red mark. He clapped a hand over his mouth when the sound escaped, not able to believe that he was in this situation. America laughed again and England suddenly realised just what the hell was going on.

"Get off of me!" He shouted, pushing America away with all his might. Unprepared, America was easily sent flying, crashing into the side of the desk. He hissed in pain.

England felt a small stab of guilt before he remembered that he was supposed to be angry with the kid. That's all America was. He was just a kid…he was confused.

"You're behaving quite lewdly, Alfred, and I would appreciate it if you would kindly come to your senses and talk about this like an adult!" He ordered, pounding a fist onto the wooden surface of the desk.

America wiped the side of his own lips before turning himself to inspect his back, where he had made contact with the desk. There was an angry red mark, showing starkly even against his tanned skin.

"That hurt, Arthur," America growled so lowly that England barely heard him "Am I going to have to teach you a lesson?" With that, he reached across the desk and pulled at England's shirt, pulling their faces close together with the desk in between them.

"A-America?" England whimpered, knowing he sounded scared, but he didn't care, because he actually kind of was. It was amazing how strong America had gotten while he hadn't been paying attention. The fist balled in his shirt tightened and England noticed how America's knuckles turned white. He swallowed.

America pressed his lips against England's again, forcefully, bruising his lips in a harsh kiss. England kept his own lips tightly shut as America's tongue brushed against them. He refused to give in…no matter how much he found himself wanting to. And then America's warmth was gone again.

"I think it's about time that you take me fucking seriously," he snarled and yanked England over the desk. Pain struck his knees as they collided with the furniture, but he was given no time to recover as he was shoved abruptly against the far wall. America seized his arms and, before England could fight back, managed to tie his hands together, with the sleeves of his wet, previously discarded shirt, and to the wooden post used to stabilize the building.

"What are you talking about?" England cried, losing all hope at trying to sound in control at this point, "I do take you seriously, Alfred! You're my little broth-"

"Don't you dare call me that, Arthur! Don't you dare!" England was surprised by the ferocity of America's voice. He'd never heard him sound so angry "I am not, and I never will be, your 'little brother'!" he spat.

"But…"

"No buts! That's it! I do not want to be your little brother, Arthur! Because I love you!"

The silence in the room was so heavy England swore he felt it physically dragging him down. Not one most able to deal with situations such as these, England felt an overwhelming desire to run away, but, of course, couldn't move.

"Get away from me," he opted for, instead. He'd intended to scare America away with an angry glare, but his order for him to leave ended up sounding like a plea for him to stay.

"Never," America said softly.

Then they were kissing again.

It was all tongue and teeth and no technique: more hungry that the last kisses had been. England could almost taste America's desperation as he delved into his mouth so diligently.

And England couldn't fight back.

So he just…went with it.

And he didn't entirely hate it…

Which made him feel sick and glorious at the same time.

Their lips parted from each other and America went for his neck again, his hands wrapping around England's waist as he did so. England melted into his touch, his face flushed, bushy eyebrows knotted together and eyes closed as he focused on the sensation.

The buttons on his shirt were swiftly and expertly undone, though he could feel the slight tremble of America's fingers as he did so. Whether from fear or anticipation, England was not sure. He felt the air hit his naked chest and his shirt pool around his wrists and then America kissed him, down his chest, across his stomach…to the top of his trousers.

England wasn't aware of the sounds he was emitting, and he didn't want to be. He was sure they would sound undignified, shameless, and downright embarrassing. And he hated that America could do this to him.

Then he heard his belt being unbuckled.

A palm on the front of his trousers, rubbing.

He bit his lip when he felt both his trousers and underwear being pulled down; not daring to open his eyes or speak. He was scared. He didn't know if he was disgusted or enticed.

That was decided for him by America's next move.

He let out a guttural moan, a noise he didn't know he could make, as America's mouth engulfed him. His eyes shot open, and he gasped.

"America! D-Don't!" he pleaded, but the voice inside his head was finishing it with _'…__don__'__t __stop!__'_

He felt filthy. He'd never done something like this before or, well, had something like this done to him before; and he found himself liking it more than anything he'd previously experienced. It might even be higher up on the liking scale than the day he'd made India a colony.

America's finger began probing his behind before pushing through the tight ring of muscle that England had not cared to think about much before. The initial shock caused him to tense, but America soon deduced him to mush with his work to England's vital regions.

With that, America began to stretch England without much protest. Feeling England's manhood beginning to leak quite profusely, America decided it was about time to get to business. He could deal with foreplay no longer.

With a final kiss, he left England's penis alone and rose to his feet, smirking when he heard England's whimper of disappointment. He pulled down his own trousers and underwear and stood to face England in all his naked glory.

"It's been a while since we've been naked together," he chuckled darkly at England's blush as he tried to cover himself and failed.

"Sh-Shut up," England replied, but there was no bite to it.

America stepped forward and leaned across the other man, England's face level with his chin, untying England from the wooden post, but keeping his hands bound together. He then grabbed England around the waist and threw him over his shoulder.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING, YOU FAT AMERICAN OAF?" England screamed, wanting to kick and punch the man, but his hands were tied, and his pants were still around his ankles, keeping him from being able to move much.

America laughed but didn't reply, carrying England into the next room where his bed was. He threw the blonde down onto the bed and crawled on top of him before England could do anything to stop him. He lined his own cock with England's entrance and began to push in. England tensed up again.

"Relax," America sounded frustrated… impatient. England was glad that there was still some of the Alfred he knew in there. He didn't, however, relax.

America sighed and pumped England's erection until the blonde was squirming under his touch, his muscles relaxed completely.

He pushed in all the way in one go. England cried out, but he didn't care. Let him feel the pain he'd been causing him for most of his life. It was only fair.

America didn't even give England time to adjust before he started to thrust ruthlessly in and out of England's body.

England's cries were now a mixture of pain and pleasure, and America didn't know which one turned him on more. Then again, he was sure that anything that came out of that man's mouth would turn him on. He pounded in, harder.

Their breathing quickened, abdominal muscles contracting. America continued to thrust and simultaneously caress England thoroughly and lovingly. Mixed signals indeed. Did America want to hurt him or love him? Maybe both.

They climaxed within seconds of each other, England first and America afterwards. America collapsed to England's side and rolled onto his back. Their heavy breathing filled the room, and they found themselves not being able to do anything else but sleep.

England woke up to a dark room, meaning it was still night. America's arm was slung over him protectively. He shrugged it off and sat up, ignoring the pain shooting up his back. He gathered his clothes from the other room, as silently as possible, and got dressed haphazardly. It was probably the first time in his life that he didn't really care about his appearance.

He sat at America's desk for a while, hating how much of a story it told. The tiny chip on the left corner: where he pushed America the night before. The scuffmark on the other side: where he'd been pulled over it.

England began looking through the draws until he found some scraps of parchment. Spreading a small piece out onto the desk, he reached for the quill that was stored on top of the desk and began to write:

_Alfred,_

_You may have won this battle, but you have not won the war. _

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur_

He felt that surmised his feelings appropriately enough.

England left it on the desk and paced to the door, ready to leave, but still stole one last glance of America sleeping.

He couldn't stop the bitter smile from spreading on his face as he left the building, thinking that the idiot should just stay asleep forever and stop being such a nuisance.  
>_<p>

Haha, hellooo….  
>You're probably wondering why the hell I haven't updated Murse in a million years. No inspiration, sorry. Also, gone off Naruto. Makes me sad. Hetalia makes me happy. Particularly America. He's sexy.<p>

I'm really sorry….but…sex! Yay! :D

Also, I used the country names, just simply because the Arthur's and Alfred's confused me…./lameasfuck.

I've been swearing more recently.

Love you :3


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